
By Lorraine J. Anderson
Lord, on this Sunday,
You are speaking to me.
Not with the vibrations of sound,
But in the voices of others,
In the still small voice of a bird.
In the sound of my mower,
In the silence of my frenzied brain,
Lord, on this Sunday,
I am hearing You.
I cannot see You.
My ears do not comprehend you.
But your breath caresses me,
Your wind cools me,
Your spirit comes into my soul.
Lord, on this Sunday,
I heard that You are the Foundation,
You are the reason for the feast,
You are the host of the feast to come,
You are the breath and the wind and the spirit,
You are all that and more.
Yet I do not fully comprehend.
Lord, on this Sunday,
I am the doubting Thomas.
I am the rich man who won’t let go.
I am the one who passes the Samaritan on the road,
I am the sinner who cannot believe.
I cannot touch your wounds with my hands.
I throw myself down with frustration.
Yet on this Sunday,
The foundation cannot be seen,
Yet it holds up a building.
The wind cannot be seen,
But we can feel the results of wind’s power.
I cannot yet see you,
But I feel in my heart you are there.
I say with the centurion,
I Believe, help me with my disbelief.
In Yeshua’s name I pray.
Amen.
